by Chris Bunch
“Thanks,” he said, slipping the blaster into his pocket, and started away.
Maria stared after him, completely bewildered. “Hey! I thought you was—”
But Wolfe was around the corner and gone with what he’d gone into the port district for.
* * * *
The message light on his com was blinking when he got back to the hotel.
“Mister Wolfe?” It was Penruddock’s voice. “I’ve been considering what you said earlier. Perhaps it would be convenient for you to come back out here, and we can continue our discussion. We’ll be in all evening.”
Joshua carefully checked the gun he’d acquired before returning the call.
* * * *
“This’ll be fine,” he told the lifter driver, and gave him credits. He got out and started for the eight-sided, five-story blue monstrosity the band’s efforts blared from.
The lifter took off, and Joshua turned in his tracks and went down three streets and over two until he was on the street where the Penruddocks lived.
He buzzed the gate panel and was admitted.
Panels sensed his approach and lit, and the driveway was a long, cobbled finger of soft light through the night.
The Penruddocks met him at the door. Malcolm wore a soft red dressing gown over black dress pants and an open-necked shirt. Ariadne Penruddock wore a green silk robe that would have been modest except for the long slit that ran up the left side to her hip. She caught Wolfe’s glance and moved her leg slightly, and Joshua saw tanned smoothness ending in close-cropped darkness. Both Wolfe and Penruddock pretended not to notice what she’d done.
“I’m glad we’re going to have a chance—” Penruddock broke off at the scream of the engines.
Two gravlighters came in above the tree line. Wolfe saw the gunmen on the open deck and dove into Penruddock.
Ariadne’s mouth gaped with surprise. Wolfe kicked the door closed, grabbed her leg, and pulled her down as the guns opened up.
They were solid projectile weapons, and rounds smashed through the walls, glass and masonry shattering, bullets whining up from the stonework.
Wolfe lay flat, trying to hold Ariadne. “The lights,” he shouted. “Where’s the cutoff switch for the lights?”
Ariadne didn’t answer, struggling in blind panic, kicking, clawing, trying to get away. She kneed him, he gasped in pain, and she scrambled up, trying to run anywhere, nowhere.
The guns crashed once more. There were three fist-sized holes in Ariadne Penruddock’s back, green turning black as the woman skidded to her knees, then collapsed facedown. Joshua was reflexively half-up; the gunmen sent more rounds chattering through the house, and he went down again.
Joshua rolled on his back, pulling the now-futile blaster as the lifters made two more passes, bullets tearing the night apart.
The door above him tore away, and there was a glow from the still-burning path lights.
Now it’s over, he thought. Now they come in with grenades and finish it.
But the lighters put on full power and were gone. Joshua barely heard the sound of their receding engines through the ringing in his ears.
He got shakily to his feet.
Dust hazed the foyer, and he had the iron taste of blood in his mouth. He saw movement, and belatedly, his gun was in his hand. Judge Penruddock staggered toward him. His hand was clasped over one arm, trying to stop the pulsing blood. His lips moved soundlessly.
Joshua heard a cracking, and Penruddock’s trophy, legs splintered from the bullets, crashed down onto the judge. Joshua dove away, rolling, down the hall, as the beast smashed into pieces.
Then there was silence.
He went back to the foyer.
Malcolm Penruddock’s body was crushed under the shattered monster, except for one hand and forearm. It twitched and was still.
Wolfe went to Ariadne Penruddock’s body. He didn’t turn it over. He didn’t want to see her face.
He reached down, touched her hand, then went quickly out of the house and around the side, away from the road, the light, and the building scream of sirens.
Chapter Eight
You were there when they slotted them?” Cisco asked.
Wolfe nodded.
“How’d you get out? They have their best cops, such as they are, on it. Penruddock was a big name, and so was his wife.”
Wolfe just looked at Cisco.
The FI man shrugged. “All right. I didn’t think you’d tell me. Did you leave any trail at all?”
“Not much of one,” Wolfe said. “I was moving under my real name, but the only link would be two com calls, one to Penruddock’s house, one back to me.”
“The cops aren’t even looking for a Mister Inside. But I’ll make sure you stay clean.”
“What’s the best theory?”
“Their murder squad is going on the assumption that one of Penruddock’s old partners in corruption was holding a grudge and waited until now to settle it.”
“Ten years after the war, after he retires? That’s thin.”
“That’s all they’ve got.”
“What about the triggermen?”
“Import talent. There was a freighter that landed two days earlier, had an open exit clearance, and lifted twelve minutes after the first reports of gunfire came in. No guns, no gunnies, no aircraft found so far, so everything must’ve gotten back aboard that ship.”
“What registry?”
“Micked. The ship came in with recognition numbers from a Halliday Line freighter that we have a positive location for on the other side of the galaxy. As for its papers,” Cisco went on, “Mandodari isn’t too particular about who lands there these days.”
“A pretty goddamned pro touch on somebody who’s been retired as long as the judge has. If he was telling me the truth,” Wolfe said.
“Okay. There’s another theory. Khodyan had friends who are doing paybacks.”
Wolfe snorted and didn’t bother answering.
“It didn’t fly for me, either,” Cisco agreed. “Try another one. His wife. Any angles there? Word is she led a pretty spectacular life.”
“No,” Wolfe said. “It has to be the Lumina.” He leaned forward. “Cisco. Who else is in the field? I’ve got to know!”
Cisco shook his head. “I don’t know. I swear, Joshua, I’m not lying to you.”
His gaze was bland, sincere.
* * * *
“Are we screened?” The on-screen Ben Greet glanced around as if he could somehow see any taps.
“Now, Ben, that’s your problem, not mine. I can guarantee the com link is sealed on this end. I’m using the Sector Marshal’s own set.”
Wolfe was lying. He was linked to Platte on one of Cisco’s secure coms.
“What do you need, Joshua? You didn’t leave any loose ends here when you left, did you? I don’t have the… the things you gave me anymore.”
“Not interested in those. What I want to know is everything you have on Sutro. The fence that was going to meet Innokenty Khodyan.”
The pickup was good enough for Wolfe to see sweat bead the resort owner’s forehead.
“Joshua, I swear, I don’t know anything at all. And even if I did, you know I couldn’t tell you anything. I’ve got to stay known as a man who can keep it buttoned.”
“Ben, talk to me. I don’t want to have to come all the way to Platte and have this conversation again.”
Wolfe let the silence linger and held Greet’s eyes. The man winced as if he’d been struck.
“All right. I’ve met him four times. Big man. Might have been a fighter once. Let himself get sloppy. He told me once he was going to get back in shape as soon as he had the energy. Black hair, don’t remember the color of his eyes; he had a beard this last time, black, going gray. I’d guess he’s in his early fifties.”
“He speaks like he has a bit of education but sometimes slips into street talk. Generally travels with half a dozen guards. He has his own ship. I don’t know where it’s registe
red.”
“Is Sutro his real name?”
“It’s the only one I’ve ever heard him use. He or any of his… clients.”
“Where’s he out of?”
Greet’s expression slipped for an instant, and the complacency showed. “Now, that I don’t know, and I haven’t inquired. Joshua, I know what the most idle curiosity can cost, remember?”
“What happened when he arrived this last time?”
“Now, that is interesting,” Greet said, a note of animation coming into his voice. “He ported where you did, about a day later, had his own lifter, and came straight on in without notification.”
“He found out about you—don’t look at me that way. I said I didn’t know who you were, just some kind of FI warrant hunter. Anyway, he heard the news and flitted like a stripe-assed ape within the hour. He seemed really unhappy, too.”
“Go back to the other times you met him. Does he illicit buy anything, or is it just jewelry?”
“He’ll deal in anything that’s high-dollar and easily transportable. I’ve known him to handle art, minerals, company certificates. He’s clean, slick, pays twenty-five percent of the legal price, which is better than most. I’ve heard he gets away with it by presetting what he buys—or else being the go-between for commissioned ‘work’.”
Wolfe found that interesting, but his face showed nothing. “What about his pleasures? Whores? Drugs? Liquor?”
“He’ll tumble a dox as long as he can pretend he’s not paying for it directly. He drinks a bit. No drugs. His main vice is gambling. That’s one reason he likes Yoruba, because my games are straight.”
“How does he pay his bills? Or do you comp him like you did me?”
“Of course not. He pays his way like any other member of the profession. Hold on. I’ll call his account up.”
Greet stepped off-screen, was gone for some minutes, then came back. “Uses a standard debit card on a draw account.”
“What bank?”
“Numbered only.”
“Give it to me.”
“Joshua…”
“Come on, Greet.”
Greet heaved a reluctant sigh. “You’re recording this, I know. Here it comes.”
His off-screen hand tapped a keyboard, and numbers scrolled across Joshua’s screen.
“I’ll save you some work, Joshua. But please don’t ask me about Sutro, not ever again. And I don’t think you’d better come back to Yoruba.”
Joshua didn’t respond.
“The card was issued on some planet called Rialto. I don’t know anything about it at all. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Thanks, Ben. I’ll leave you in peace. For now. But one thing. Don’t even think about tipping Sutro. He’s a maybe, but I’m certain.”
Joshua touched the sensor. The connection must have blanked on Greet’s end first, because before the image broke up, Joshua saw the fat man’s face pucker in a frenzy of rage as he spit into the pickup.
* * * *
The great house teetered in its abandon like an archaic top hat that had been set upon by mice and small boys. It was back from the road, closed off by a sagging and rusted razor-wire fence. There was a large, new stainless-steel cylinder sticking up out of the ground that was the input side of a pneumatic delivery system.
The gate sagged on its hinges. Wolfe eased through and went up the cracked and overgrown walk. Grass grew thick around the main building, and the trees were long unpruned, broken branches caressing the ground. It had gotten worse since the last time Joshua had been there.
The house looked tired, gray, as if its date with demolition contractors had been broken and never remade, and now it just waited, knowing time could do no more, and the final collapse would be welcome.
Wolfe touched a com sensor. It was ten minutes before the box crackled.
“Go away.” The voice sounded as cracked and old as the house it came from.
“Mister Davout? This is Joshua Wolfe. I need some help.”
Another long silence.
“Wolfe? Commander Wolfe?”
Joshua took a deep breath. “That’s right.”
“I’m sorry. Very sorry. There’s been some young vandals. I didn’t mean to be rude. Come right in.”
There was a clack as the door auto-unlocked and swung open.
Wolfe smelled damp, decay, rot and entered. The house’s central hallway was stacked with neatly bundled and tied newscoms reaching high over Wolfe’s head. The door to a front room stood open. It was almost full of boxes. Wolfe looked into one. It held unopened music-fiche shipping containers.
“I’m upstairs, Commander. Be careful. I’ve added some new precautions.”
Wolfe went down the hall toward the stairs. Another room he passed was stacked high with the gadgets of the moment from the last ten years in their original packaging.
His stomach churned as he caught the reek from the kitchen. It had been a long time since it had seen a scrub unit or, for that matter, cooked a meal. He saw a sink stacked high with dishes, green and black mold spilling over the stainless basins toward the floor. To one side were row after row of freezer units and, beside them, the interior outlet of the pneumo-tube.
The stairs were a tunnel of baled papers arching close overhead, and Wolfe had to turn sideways to go up them. He moved very slowly, hearing the creak of the uncertain bales and seeing every now and then bright steel wire carefully laid where the careless would be certain to step and bring tons of paper tumbling down.
He didn’t look in any of the rooms on the second floor but went up to the top floor.
That had once been a single room, probably a conservatory, since there were double-panel glass squares overhead that had been sloppily painted black. The room had been divided and divided again by more baled papers, except those papers came from the huge, if elderly, superspeed printer.
Waiting was a small man who, like his house, smelled of decay. He wore a tattered set of coveralls and slippers.
“You’re not in uniform,” Davout said in relief.
Wolfe frowned in puzzlement.
“If you had any bad news about my brother,” the little man explained, “you would have come in uniform. And there would have been a doctor or priest. That’s the way they always do it.”
Davout’s brother had been a civilian com tech on a world that had been one of the first seized by the Al’ar when the war had started. Like Joshua’s parents, he’d been interned. But unlike them, there’d been no confirmation as to his fate. It had merely been missing… missing… missing, presumed dead… and then, when all the prison worlds had been fine-combed, the flat report: DECEASED.
Davout had never believed any of the reports, and so he’d kept everything from the day he’d heard of his brother’s capture, sure that one day, one hour, the man would stride up the walk and want to know what had happened while he was away.
“So how is the war going? Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. Well, well enough, or else I wouldn’t be able to reach out to as many worlds as I can. Sit down, Commander, sit down. I’ll make tea.”
Davout picked up a stack of microfiches from a rickety chair, looked about helplessly for a place to put them, and finally set them on the floor. Joshua sat awkwardly. Davout left the cubicle they were in and went into another, where Joshua could see a tiny heating plate and micro-oven. Another cubicle beside it held a chemical toilet that from the smell Davout had forgotten to recycle for a while.
All that was in the paper-walled cubicle was the chair Wolfe sat in, a second torn office chair, a stained canvas cot, and the console that had brought him there. It was an amazing assemblage of electronics, none appearing less than five years old, most still anodized in various mil-spec shades of dullness.
“You know, Commander,” Davout’s voice came. “When this war ends, I think we should consider war crimes trials for the Al’ar. I mean, it’s just not right for them to treat people the way they do.”
“Don’t you agree?�
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Joshua made a noncommittal noise, almost felt like crying. Once, three years before, he’d tried to tell Davout, tried to show him. The little man had stared as if Wolfe had begun speaking in a completely unknown tongue. He’d waited until Wolfe had stammered into silence, then had continued their conversation where Wolfe had so rudely interrupted it.
Davout came out, cautiously balancing two mismatched dirty cups holding a dark substance.
“If you want milk or sugar, I’ll have to go below-stairs,” he said. “I don’t partake, as you know, so I keep forgetting my manners and keep some on hand.”
“That’s fine, Mister Davout.”
“So what brings you this time? You know, I don’t ever think I’ve really thanked you for what you’re doing for me. I mean, I know who you work for…” Davout looked cagily at Wolfe through thick, tangled eyebrows. “You don’t need to tell me. I’ve read about you intelligence operatives. I’m glad you trust me enough to help with your projects. It keeps me from… thinking too much. About things.”
“I just hope I’m doing my share to win the war.”
Wolfe coughed, clearing his throat. “This time it should be easy, Mister Davout.”
“Go ahead.” Davout picked up a v-helmet and held it ready. “Oh, I’ve forgotten to tell you something. I’ve made a new acquisition.” He pointed to a second helmet half-hidden behind a pile of paper. “If you want to ride along, you’re welcome.”
Wolfe set the cup down, walked over, and got the helmet. It was even older than the one Davout held and, like the little man’s, had been extensively modified, the jerry-rigged modifications e-taped or glued in place.
Wolfe pulled out the rubber bands that retracted the headphones, put the helmet on, and slid the black visor over his face. He started as something crawled across his throat, then realized it was the helmet’s microphone.
“There we are,” Davout’s voice came. “Now, what do we need?”
“A planet named Rialto. I don’t know where it is, what it is. But I need to find out something about its banks.”